Judgement
by Lady Mear
Summary: Harry isn't dead, but he's not quite human. Dumbledore isn't evil, but he has lost the plot. Voldemort is evil, mostly human, dead at least once, never had the plot to begin with and is also insane. Dark Independant Harry Ron and Hermione bashing.Slash
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**I am making no money from this. Anything recognised from Harry Potter belongs to JKR and her affiliates. Anything from the various religions comes from them and probably belongs to them. Anything totally unrecognisable is the result of my warped imagination and perverted sense of justice. No animals, humans, demons, angels, gods, witches, wizards or giant squids were harmed in the writing of this work of fan-fiction.

**Judgement**

**Prologue **

The house was in ruins. It looked like it had been hit with a muggle 'boom'… a very big muggle boom. Albus Dumbledore gazed around the devastation with what many would fondly imagine was grief. It was, to a certain extent, but the old man had long ago accepted that he would never be able to have any real feelings for the child who had once lived here. Oh, he had dearly wanted to do right by the child and the knowledge of what he had done instead was a splinter in his mind and soul. He was not a man who took any pleasure in hurting others, particularly children, but in those dark days, when he had all but lost hope of finding a way to end the war, when he had bitterly acknowledged his own powerlessness in the face of the prophecy, he had accepted that he would have to make some harsh decisions. Certain things would _have_ to happen, _have_ to be done. The child of the prophecy would have to be _guaranteed_ light and controllable and most importantly, had to be willing to do anything to make a place for himself in the magical world. The people needed a saviour and the child would have to be that saviour, regardless of whether that child wanted to be or not.

So he had set things in motion, carefully arranging things to give the best outcome for everyone. Sacrifices would have to be made and sadly, sadly most of those would have to be made by the prophesied child. He still wasn't sure how the child had survived that first curse, but he had his suspicions. He also wasn't sure how much longer the myth of the blood wards would have held up. Lupin had been chaffing at the restraints. Sooner or later, the werewolf would have gone to the house regardless of Dumbledore's orders and the moment he set foot on the property, he would have known there were no blood wards. There were plenty of other wards, enough that only Alastor had so far noticed the lack. The old auror hadn't questioned him on it yet, but it was only a matter of time. He was still surprised every time no one questioned how he knew Lily Potter had had the option to flee and didn't take it. Of course it didn't matter now. He had no idea why exactly a muggle would boom number 4, Privet Drive, but someone had and not even Harry Potter's exceptional luck could hold out against the almost complete obliteration of the building he was in.

Sighing, he stepped back from the wreckage and looked up at the clear night sky above him. At least he knew it hadn't been Voldemort's doing. The total destruction of the wizarding world's saviour would not have gone unsigned had the Dark Lord been involved. This of course, only left one question; if Harry Potter was not the one fated to destroy Voldemort, then who was? Neville Longbottom? The Gryffindor was still a possibility, he couldn't deny that, but Voldemort had never shown any interest in the boy and he bore no mark. Turning slowly, and looking every bit his age, Dumbledore began to make his way out of the wreckage. A light summer breeze shuffled his long hair and blew some of the ash around in the debris behind him as he walked. The wind was too light to move much, but a faint red glow could now be seen, barely discernable under the fallen remain of the house. The colour was slightly deeper then the orangey one created by the still glowing embers. Dumbledore continued to walk, his thoughts to the prophecy and on who it could apply to. He was missing something, he was sure, but what was it?

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	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**I am making no money from this. Anything recognised from Harry Potter belongs to JKR and her affiliates. Anything from the various religions comes from them and probably belongs to them. Anything totally unrecognisable is the result of my warped imagination and perverted sense of justice. No animals, humans, demons, angels, gods, witches, wizards or giant squids were harmed in the writing of this work of fan-fiction.

**Chapter 1; Returns and New Beginnings**

It was the 1st of September and it was raining. Of course, in Scotland that was hardly surprising. The night sky was shrouded in rolling grey and black clouds, the stars completely concealed from view. The little village of Hogsmeade lay in a small valley at the foot of a rather well known mountain, although few people knew the mountain's name. Far more recognisable and far more memorable was the building lying around half way to the summit; Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. With the bright pennants flying from the turrets of the castle, it looked rather out of place when viewed from the village against the backdrop of the rain and fast rising wind.

On the outskirts of the village, on the far side to the school, a red glow appeared suddenly on small piece of barren land and began to spread across the muddy ground. The glow formed into lines, which in turn split apart to form runes and outside the runes, a thin circle. The rest of the glow began to gather brightness and slowly rise to form a pillar of light at the centre of the glowing runes. An indeterminate time later, the pillar began to solidify to form a vaguely human shape. Then further to form first a humanoid form and then the figure of a person a little over six feet in height.

The light continued to condense until individual features were visible. It was a young man of around twenty-three or four years of age. He was quite tall, a few inches over six feet in his heavy black boots, with a slim, athletic build and a nice pair of shoulders. His face was handsome, with full lips, high, sculpted cheekbones and hooded eyes, currently red from the light and a ragged scar that ran from his hairline above his right eye and trailed off to the side, ending at the bottom of his jaw. At its widest point, just above his eye, it was around three inches across and looked like something had tried to claw his face off. This was not far from the truth. His ears were delicately pointed and each one was pierced three times. His hair was short and loosely spiked, the tips a lighter shade then the rest, but the colours were muted in the glow.

He was wearing a pair of dark trousers and a shirt of what was probably the same colour, under a full length trench coat that fell to his ankles. A bag was slung loosely over his left shoulders and held in placed by the long slender fingers of that hand. The nails on those fingers were a darker colour then the rest of his skin and seemed unnaturally pointed, more like claws then human hands.

The young man's hair moved lightly in a different wind to the one blowing through the surrounding countryside. He looked around for a moment and appeared to sigh once before raising his right hand, palm downwards and making a complicated movement as if on a control panel only he could see. With one more bright flash, the light disappeared, leaving the young man behind. A hastily muttered incantation created a softly glowing shield around him to keep off the wind and rain and he looked around again, this time with green, cat slit eyes. In the softly glowing white light, his clothing and nails were revealed to be black, along with his hair, although this was tipped with silver. He dug around in his pocket for a moment and then produced a small box, from which he took a cigarette and lit it with a word. As he put it to his lips, fangs flashed in the gentle light.

Then he started walking towards the main village road. He moved with the wolf-cautious grace of someone who was never truly off their guard, quickly and quietly. If he didn't miss his guess, the sorting should just have started and he wanted to make an entrance. As he walked, certain things began to change; first, his nails lost the sharpness and colour, becoming softer and more human looking, his ears became rounder, although he kept the earrings. His eyes became human eyes, the vivid green darkening a shade as they did so. His cheek bones altered slightly, indicating that his fangs were gone, a fact proved as he looked up and smiled as the castle came into view along the path ahead of him.

He stopped at the gates and dropping the cigarette onto the wet muddy trail. Then he used the toe of his boot to grind it into the ground and settling the bag more comfortably onto his shoulder, he made his way towards the school ahead of him. He hadn't expected to run into anyone during the short walk from the doors to the entrance to the Great Hall and he was as pleased to find this guess correct as he was irritated at the lack of security in a time of war. He stopped in front of the doors to listen.

"…been fed, there are a few announcements to be made…" he could hear Dumbledore saying, "The Forbidden Forest is just that, forbidden. All students should take note of that. Mr Filch has asked me to advise you that all product of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes have been added to the banned items list. Due to the situation outside these walls, DADA has been split into two separate classes, DSADA, Defence and Survival against the Dark Arts and DAND, Defence against Natural Dangers. Both these classes are compulsory. Professors Snape and Hagrid have agreed to take over the latter of two classes, so please welcome Professor Andrew Race-Norris who will be teaching Pre-OWL potions. Professor Tristan Daimonas who will be teaching DSADA appears to be running a bit late..."

The doors swung open, catching everyone's attention and the young man walked into Great Hall.

"I'm here." He asked softly into the ensuing silence.

"Ah, Tristan, you made it!" Dumbledore didn't miss a beat.

"The weather is atrocious." He said by way of explanation. Then he looked slowly around the room, taking in the students and then the teachers as he started moving again. A few moments later, he took the set between McGonagall and Flitwick.

"Students, allow me to introduce your new DSADA professor, Tristan Daimonas." Dumbledore beamed.

There was a smattering of polite applause, but most people seemed unsure. Tristan wondered if that was because of his appearance or his apparent age. He ignored Dumbledore as the old man conducted his students for the school song. And then they could leave.

"I'll show you to your quarters, Professor Daimonas if you'd like?" McGonagall said. He nodded and stood up to follow her out of the hall. Tristan had no intention of showing it, but he was absolutely exhausted. Jumping dimensions was not easy even for one such as him and he had had to do it twice in quick succession.

He couldn't help noticing the looks McGonagall was sending him as they walked and he had to admit some amusement as he waited for her to work up the courage to say anything. It took surprising little time, but then she was the head of Gryffindor House, "May I ask what happened to your face?"

"My familiar didn't like me very much, the first time we met. We get along better now."

McGonagall blinked and then hesitated a moment, "May I ask what your familiar is?"

Tristan smiled for a moment and then said, "I'd honestly rather not say. Part of my agreement with Headmaster Dumbledore is that Lusa won't be anywhere near the school. I don't want word to get out and any of the students either trying to find her or trying to trick me into calling her out of curiosity. At the end of the year, if you still want to know, I will tell you."

"Why then?"

Tristan smiled at the woman, "I've heard about the curse. If I do break it and return for a second year, I'll be too thrilled to care."

McGonagall laughed and decided that she liked the young man, "Professor, may I ask…"

The stopped outside Tristan's door and McGonagall trailed off, not sure how to continue.

"May you ask why I think I'm suitable for the position?"

McGonagall blushed, but nodded.

"Call me Tristan."

"Then please call me Minerva."

He cocked his head slightly, nodded once and looked at her and McGonagall was struck by how intense his gaze was and she suddenly began to entertain thoughts she hadn't had about a colleague in twenty years. She blushed even more and Tristan smiled, "First, I am older then I look, I'm actually twenty six. Secondly, to learn to defend against something, you need to understand it. Unlike the previous Darks Arts teachers, I am a dark wizard, although I practice the light arts too. Albus even made me take an oath that I'm not a Death Eater or a supporter of Voldemort. I have looked into the Abyss, Minerva, and it has looked back and I didn't like what I saw."

"I don't understand…"

Tristan tilted his head again and then said softly, "Think about it and I'm sure it will come to you." Then with another smile to take the sting out of his words, he opened the door and went inside.

He looked slowly around the rooms that would be his home for the next nine months. Teachers at Hogwarts were given a suite of rooms, usually either four or five, along with their office. Tristan wasn't surprised to learn that the DADA position came with one of the bigger ones. He was standing in what was obviously the living room and there were four open doors surrounding him. Through one, he could see a bath and through the one to his right, a kitchenette. He dropped his bag onto the floor and went exploring.

He immediately found that his guess as to the use of the room to his immediate right was correct as he entered a small kitchenette, large enough for one person with frequent guests. The door opposite the one he had entered from lead him into a reasonably large, empty room. He looked around in confusion before remembering Dumbledore telling him each suite had an empty room for the occupant to do what he wanted with. Dumbledore's twinkle had been working overtime when he mentioned one of the previous DADA teachers had turned the room into a photo studio. Although he didn't say it, Tristan guessed that had been Lockhart. After spending a few moments contemplating what he could do with the room, Tristan left it, returning to the living room and by passing the bathroom. He would explore that when next he needed to use the facilities. The next room, he was relieved to find, was the bedroom, complete with two wardrobes, a love seat, a chest of drawers and a small locker beside a large four poster bed. Deciding everything else could wait until the next morning, which was a Sunday anyway; Tristan dropped his coat onto the floor, pulled off his boots and collapsed, still dressed onto the bed. He was asleep before he head hit the pillow.

When he next awoke, he was feeling much better. A quick tempus charm told him it was a little after eleven in the morning and as such, he had missed breakfast. On the other hand, lunch was in less then an hour. Sighing, he rolled out of the bed and resolved to unpack and sort out his rooms after lunch; he stretched out before padding silently, wand in hand into the bathroom. The room was white, totally white and Tristan winced at the unexpected brightness. Several spells later, the walls were dark green and the utilities were black porcelain. The counters had been replaced with black marble. The last thing he did was dye the towels the same colour as the walls. Content that he wouldn't get a headache the next time he walked into the room, he quickly stripped off and climbed into the shower stall for what he guessed would be his first shower in over five years.

Half an hour later, he stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom debating about putting a robe on and ignoring the room around him. He was wearing a pair of black jeans with a black long sleeved T-shirt over it, but he knew that seeing a teacher out of robes would be an unusual sight for most people. He's never been truly comfortable in them though, and aside from the ceremonial battle robes he had received a few years before, he wore them as little as he could get away with. The battle robes he could do little about, so he wore them when he had to with ill grace and let it become simply another aspect of his personality… and something for the others to tease him about. He spent another moment looking at his reflection and then decided not to bother. He wasn't going to wear them any more then he absolutely had to anyway, so he should really start now. Decision made, left his chambers and made his way to the hall- slowly. He didn't want it to be obvious he knew his way.

Lunch had just started when he arrived and it was evident from the gusto many of the older students were eating with that he wasn't the only person in the school to indulge in a bit of Sunday morning laziness, although he doubted anyone else had been in quite as bad shape as he had been. Most of the students looked up as he entered and a few gaped at his clothing before they turned to whisper to their friends. Tristan ignored them and took a seat at the head table, once again beside Minerva.

"I see you found your way back."

"Yeah."

Minerva seemed about to say something else, when the door opened again and she subsided as they watched Snape storm up to the head table. Tristan raised an eyebrow at the other man, but otherwise made no move to acknowledge his presence. The greasy hair framed a sneer and then he turned to his lunch. The older man clearly wasn't impressed with Tristan's clothing. In fact, Snape didn't appear to be impressed with him, period. Tristan shrugged and continued eating. Nothing new there anyway.

Despite Snape's arrival and obvious disapproval at both the state of Tristan's dress and the young professor himself, lunch passed relatively quietly. The Gryffindor table provided some entertainment in the form of the sudden appearance of several canaries. From the laughter coming from the Weasley twins, Tristan could guess they were the cause. Snape glowered, but Minerva seemed content to allow the prank to go unpunished. Seeing Tristan's confused look, she explained, "They aren't hurting anyone and if I tried punishing them for every single prank, I'd never get anything else done."

"I see."

"If you're finished, Tristan, would you like a tour?"

Tristan smiled and nodded, quickly downing the rest of his pumpkin juice.

Minerva proved to be a gifted tour guide and for the next two hours, she showed him the ins and outs of the school, filling the time with anecdotes and stories from her time as a teacher. From Isabella Domingo, the Spanish socialite who was forced to flee Spain after her torrid love affair with the crown prince was made public and hid for two months in the north tower to tales of the Marauders prank war with the then reigning champions (who were never identified) during their second year to some of the stunts pulled by the current pranking champions, Fred and George Weasley. Tristan couldn't help but notice though, that not one mention was made of the Boy-Who-Lived and the Golden Trio. He considered asking about it, but decided not to. After all, Minerva had been his head of house. Maybe it was just her way of dealing with her grief at the death of one of her students. He was still intensely curious though, to learn exactly what his teachers had truly thought of him and his antics.

Eventually they arrived back at the door to his chambers and parted company, Minerva promising to drop off his teaching schedule later that afternoon. Tristan nodded and went in; deciding that now was a very good time to sort out his rooms when he once again took in the living room.

For the most part the rooms came fully furnished, but the colours, which last night had been the least of Tristan's worries, where now beginning to grate on his nerves. First things first though. He went and got his bag, rummaging inside it until he found the status field protected stereo and put it onto the floor in the corner. Selecting 'random' from the playlist menu, he cast a couple of silencing spells and a warning spell in the door so he knew if someone knocked and turned the volume up. Iron Maiden's _Paschendale_ began to blare out of the speakers.

Umbridge had had a thing for frills, lace and pink. The second thing he did was gather all that into the middle of the room and set it on fire. The walls were left with the stones bare, although Tristan did dig out several of the pictures he had brought with him and hang them up. A print of _Death on a Pale Horse_ by William Blake went on one wall and across from it another called, _The Garden of Earthly Delights_ by Hieronymus Bosch. The last one he put up, directly opposite the door was Sir Frank Dicksee's _Belle Dame sans Merci_. Then just to cause confusion he added a framed poster of Iron Maiden to the wall between the doors to the bathroom and duelling room. He transfigured the coffee table and bookshelves from… whatever wood Umbridge had selected to oak. He then transfigures the curtains over the windows to heavy green velvet and changed the couches to soft brown leather. If there had been any doubt that his bag was charmed bigger inside, then it was destroyed when Tristan pulled two Persian rugs out of it. One he put on front of the fire, between it and the coffee table. The second, he placed on front of the bookcases. He then moved the stereo which was now belting out System of a Down's _Chop Suey_ onto one of the shelves. Satisfied with the living room, he turned his attention to the bedroom.

The previous night and when he woke up, he had been first too tired and then too hungry to care about the décor, so it was with a slight wince that he took in the baby pink walls and doilies on every surface. With a wave of his hand, the walls turned to a rich, deep blue. The pink bedding was replaced with heavy blue silk, a few shades lighter then the wall and trimmed with gold. The carpet was replaced with hardwood and as with the living room, all the wood was quickly transfigured into oak. The doilies disappeared along with the rest of the lace into the smokeless fire still going strong in the living room.

He pulled out another two pictures to hang up in the bedroom, a print of Leonardo DaVinci's _Vitruvian Man_ and a large signed poster of Rammstien on stage that he got at the band's concert in Germany over the summer. It had been one of only four trips he had made back to this world and a birthday present from the person he had begun to think of as an older sister and best friend combined.

Next was the duelling room, although that didn't take much work. He simply vanished everything inside it. Digging round in his bag, he found the miniaturised weapons rack, which, when resized, went against on wall and the weights which went beside it. Grinning at how easy the room had been, he made his way back into the living room. Walking over to the bookshelves, he dropped the bag onto the floor and began to pull out the miniaturized books that he had brought back with him, along with the CDs that he hadn't been able to fit onto the stereo's inbuilt hard drive. In between the books, he put the other odds and ends that he had decided to bring with him, the ornate replica samurai sword and stand went on, along with about a hundred candles. A triangular paperweight with a dragon formed out of tiny bubbles went beside a bowl with a handful of loose change in it. An incense burner shaped like a staff wielding wizard fighting a chimera went on as well.

Tristan was just finishing up by putting the last few knickknacks into his bedroom, along with some candles, when the alarm on the door went off. He made his way back out, turning the volume down on the stereo, which was just finishing _Poison Girl_ by HIM. He wasn't terribly surprised to find Minerva at the door, holding what he assumed to be his timetable. He smiled at her and motioned her in, enjoying the combination of confusion, surprise and shock on her face as she looked around.

"Interesting… artwork." She said after a moment of looking around.

Knowing what she was getting at, he replied, "Art has no more meaning then the viewer chooses to give it. Only the truly great can give meaning even when it isn't wanted."

"Are you saying these do have meaning or that they don't?" Minerva snapped, feeling that she knew the young man well enough that he wouldn't take offence.

Tristan laughed, "_Belle_ has no meaning to me. I just find the picture relaxing. _Death_, well that reminds me that not everything is how it appears, a lesson I learned harshly and learned well. Iron Maiden is a muggle rock band. I like their music. _The Garden_… well, that's personal."

Minerva blinked at the obvious thought that had gone into the choices.

"Iron Maiden?"

"Yes, an interesting name, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose…" she trailed off, "I brought your schedule."

"Thank you." He replied taking it off of her and tossing it onto the coffee table, bringing Minerva's eyes to the flat grey box on it.

"What…"

"A muggle laptop. I find it easier to store information on it then to troll through books every time I need something."

"I wasn't aware that muggle technology worked here?"

"I can get it to work, but it's difficult. For my laptop and stereo, I decide it was worth it."

It was only then that Minerva realised she was listening to music, "What is that?"

Tristan listened for a moment and then said, "The Immigrant Song, by Led Zeppelin."

"I've never heard anything like it…" she shook her head and took her leave.

Tristan entertained himself for a few moments with the image of Biker Minerva before dragging his mind back to the present.

He turned the music back up and went into the kitchen long enough to grab a can of coke and then sat down on the couch in front of the coffee table, pulling the schedule to him as he did so. He had the Slytherin and Gryffindor 6th years first, followed by the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw 3rd years. He absently tapped the schedule as he considered that. Ron and Hermione would be in his first class. He slid down till he was sitting on the floor, resting his back against the chair. They were unlikely to recognise him. Ron wouldn't look any deeper then the skin. Lusa had done him one hell of a favour when she had tried to rip his face off. The strip of skin she had pulled from him had included his scar and the larger scar had changed his face too much for him to be easily recognised. With his darkened eyes and the subtle alteration of his jaw line to accommodate his fangs, no one was likely to connect Tristan to Harry Potter. Hermione's much vaunted maturity would be the reason she would miss it. She had never truly been willing to admit that either he or Ron had been old enough to make their own decisions; particularly if she didn't agree then said decision. Two months for them had been ten years for him and that added age would ensure that Hermione didn't look at him as a friend. Harry Potter would stay dead.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch, once again wondering if returning to Hogwarts was truly the best decision. Yes, it put him close to the heart of the action, but it would also mean he risked his exposure every moment of the day. Sighing he climbed back to his feet and drained his can. Either way, the decision was made. And he still had the kitchen to sort out before dinner.

Tristan still hadn't bothered to put on a robe by the time he went to dinner and once again, his entry caused a wave of mutters to spread out through the students. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow as his newest professor's dress sense, but made no comment on it. He did however; take note of the number of girls who were eyeing their new DSADA teacher up, with some trepidation. Tristan would be a good teacher, but the boy was most assuredly dark. It had taken an oath before he had believed that he wasn't a death eater. Tristan, if he remembered right, had been very amused by that.

The young man in question took his seat in between Flitwick and Sinistra this time and within a few minutes was engrossed in a discussion on the potential benefits of some charm Dumbledore could only vaguely remember hearing about once or twice and dinner began. Shaking his head, Dumbledore turned to his own meal. He had the entire year to discover Tristan's secrets.

Some time later, Tristan sat in his office, absently going over the notes left by the previous DADA teachers. According to Minerva, Snape had already been given a copy and knew where the line between their subjects would be. Tristan had little hope of the sour man actually sticking to those lines, but he didn't really care either. The students needed all the practice they could get. His office was beginning to look more homely. The bookshelves behind him were now full of the odds and ends he had decided prior to his arrival to put on display. A floe glass faced the desk and a sneakoscope was being used as a paperweight. Besides the books on the shelves behind the desk, there was also a selection of replica weapons in glass cases. A few of the weapons were real, but Tristan had no intention of actually admitting that. A smaller stereo, this one without the hard drive, and a selection of CDs were also on a shelf, although Minerva might have been surprised to discover they included a selection of classical and opera pieces. Mars, the bringer of War was currently playing in the background. Tristan had also indulged in his taste for rock posters and had hung four in the room, one of HIM, one of NIN, one of Slipknot and the final one of Ozzy Osbourne from his 'Prince of Darkness' phase. He leaning back in his chair and looked around. Life was good. No one had any expectation of him he couldn't live with this time. His mind turned to the next day and a smile pulled at his lips. The year was going to be… interesting.

Tristan missed breakfast the next morning; partly because he didn't want to give anyone a chance to question his lack of robes, but mainly because he didn't have to be at breakfast on Monday mornings and that meant that he could get another half hour in bed. So, the first time anyone seen Tristan was when he came up behind the 6th year class he had first thing on Monday morning.

"… telling you Ron, he must know what he is doing. Dumbledore isn't going to hire someone who doesn't know what he's doing after last year! Everyone knows You-Know-Who is back now."

"Hermione, he can't be much older then us. Where and when is he going to have learnt anything? After the DA last year, I'd say we probably know more then _Professor Daimonos_. There was a subtle emphasis on the name that told Tristan he had missed something.

"Really, Ron! Just because the professor is good looking doesn't mean anything! I just think that Dumbledore…" she trailed off as her eyes took in the professor who was no standing behind Ron.

Realising something was wrong, Ron spun around to face the man behind him.

Tristan stood there, looking at the students with a faint smile on his lips. He was wearing a pair of black combat trousers and a black long sleeved T-shirt. The heavy boots he had been wearing since the day he arrived were still there and a black leather belt with a silver buckle in a weird Celtic design was slung around his waist. His arms were folded across his chest and the silver studs on the wand holster on his right wrist reflected the candle light in the dark corridor.

"Is there any reason you are standing in the corridor and not sitting in the class room, Mr Weasley?"

Ron simply stared at him. Tristan looked around and when his eyes settled on Hermione, he raised an eyebrow in question.

Hermione drew herself up, "Not many of the teachers like the students to enter the classroom before they are present, Professor Daimonas. We thought it would be best to wait out here." She flicked her head slightly, "The Slytherins are already inside."

"Well, why don't you join them then?"

Hermione blinked, then nodded once and led the Gryffindors in.

The students got themselves settled while Tristan watched from his position leaning against the desk. His eyes wandered over the students, picking out the ones who were most likely already death eaters and those who were just waiting for the chance to join. His eyes paused at Draco Malfoy. Malfoy was an enigma; no one was sure which side he was on. Or indeed what his plans were. In the high stakes poker game Tristan was playing with the universe, Malfoy was a total unknown.

The role was quickly called and then Tristan decided it was time to get started for real. "Well then, let's get started." The class's attention was immediately on him, "My name is Tristan Daimonos. Welcome to DSADA, or Defence and Survival against the Dark Arts. You are 6th years, which means that you should already have a fairly good working knowledge of what is out there. You will note, that I said 'should'. Between the lack of competent teachers and the amount of… excitement Hogwarts has seen in the last five years, I very much doubt you are up to scratch."

The class did not look happy. In fact, Ron looked ready to explode.

"I don't know how much of a difference your little duelling club made last year, beyond giving you a chance to vent, so I suggest we start there. Mr Weasley, Mr Crabbe, front and centre please."

The duel was quickly over. Ron had only had to cast three spells to win. Tristan sent Crabbe back to his seat and called Zabini up. This time the duel lasted quite a bit longer. Zabini seemed content to dodge the steady stream of hexes, curses and charms Weasley was sending at him until frustrated Ron over extended and a shockingly quick stunning spell caught him in the chest. Tristan nodded to them and sent them back to their seats, calling the next two students up.

By the end, he had a pretty good idea of what the individual students were capable of. "Alright, not bad. Better then I thought it would be anyway." Ron bristled, his face slowly going red.

Tristan, watching him couldn't help but smile, "For next week, I want between one and two rolls of parchment on what makes a spell or a person dark."

"What?" Ron couldn't contain himself any longer.

"Mr Weasley?"

"What do you mean 'what makes a person dark'? That's obvious!"

"Is it Mr Weasley? In that case you will have no difficulty in doing the assigned homework. To make a point, that essay will count towards your final mark for the year. Class dismissed."

The students began to pack up, most of them trying to work out what angle Tristan wanted them to take on the essay. He wasn't surprised when Hermione stopped on front of his desk, "Professor Daimonos?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"I was… well…" she trailed off under his gaze and then blushed.

The reason for Ron's antagonism suddenly became clear.

"Miss Granger?"

"I was wondering why Professor Dumbledore would select someone so young…"

"I assume that Headmaster believed I can do the job, Miss Granger. Do you have a question about the class?"

"What exactly do you want us to put in this essay?"

Tristan stood up straighter and looked at the girl for a moment before moving around the desk and sitting down in the chair, "Something a bit more thought out then 'they got sorted into Slytherin'. I want you to tell me your opinion on what makes a dark witch or wizard. I want know what makes the killing curse dark but the levitation charm not, when both can be used to kill. Now you had better hurry or you will be late for potions."

Hermione nodded and left; a look of confusion on her face. Tristan strongly suspected that this was the first time anyone had ever demanded Hermione Granger explain her biases.

The third year class ventured in. Tristan watched them and sighed. He was lucky he wasn't still that small. Considering the amount of time and effort it took to fix the damage his relatives did to him, he was willing to bet that Dumbledore had never intended to do anything about it. The old man had needed Harry Potter to play a role, for the 'greater good'. Tristan hoped he was home when Dumbledore came in; he really wanted to see what Dumbledore thought of the afterlife his 'greater good' earned him.

Dragging his mind back, he turned his attention to the students, "Right, role first, questions after. Alright?"

At then past four that afternoon, Tristan collapsed into the chair in his office and wondered what on earth, or anywhere else, he had been thinking when he applied for the DSADA job. Surprisingly, it had been one of the first year Hufflepuffs who had worked up the courage to ask why he wasn't wearing robes, something that amused him no end. Thus is was that the first years were the also the first to learn any personal details about their new teacher when he explained to them that after living for so long in the muggle world, he found robes to be a bother. This had results in an impromptu demonstration of muggle fighting techniques and how robes could tangle someone up. The students were impressed and Tristan was delighted that he had managed to make them question the pureblood dogma on their first day. Now though, he was exhausted. Five years would get the same piece of homework for the first week. It would also be the question they would be asked in their Christmas exam. Their mark would be based on how well they had developed an understanding of the underlying causes. The fifth and seventh years, he would focus on what was likely to come up on the OWLs and NEWTs.

He had to admit, the day had gone better then he had been expecting. For the most part the students were willing to accept him. It would take them a while to trust him, but that was time he could spend easily. After all, there was nothing he could do until Voldemort came for the school. Despite the prophecy, he hands were now tied by the rules governing the Obsidian Guards. One of these days he might even be able to work out why he had joined them and not the Silver Guard when he had the chance.

The music behind him stopped as the CD finished. Tristan sank lower into his chair at the sudden silence. If life was a stage, then all the main protagonists of this comedy were in place. Voldemort, Dumbledore and himself. As Nychta was fond of saying, now all they could do was wait for the first one to forget their lines.

He stood up and changed the CD, not really paying attention, the stands of HIM's _Join me in Death _filled the room. Tristan glanced down at the CD box in his hand. How strangely appropriate, he thought.

* * *

Like? Don't like? Let me know.

Thank you to those who reviewed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:**I am making no money from this. Anything recognised from Harry Potter belongs to JKR and her affiliates. Anything from the various religions comes from them and probably belongs to them. Anything totally unrecognisable is the result of my warped imagination and perverted sense of justice. No animals, humans, demons, angels, gods, witches, wizards or giant squid were harmed in the writing of this work of fan-fiction.

**Author's Note:** The prints Tristan hung in his rooms are of real paintings and yes, you can buy prints of them.

**Chapter 2; Angels from On High and Also Down Below**

The first week passed quickly for both Tristan and his students. He continued to spend time with Minerva, but had increased his small circle to include Rolanda Hooch and Filius Flitwick. As much as he wanted to include Hagrid, he wasn't sure he could keep his mouth shut around his first ever friend. The half giant was one of the few people that he was honestly sorry to have left.

One thing that had become quite interesting over the week was the older Gryffindor and Slytherin students. He was very surprised to discover how few of the Gryffindor's seemed to care that one of their own had been killed. They mourned the Boy-Who-Lived and their star seeker, but _Harry Potter_ seemed to have been lost in that. Slytherin likewise were gloating a lot less then he had anticipated and seemed unsure about how they should be responding more then anything else. When Nychta had suggested returning to Hogwarts, he had originally been against the idea, believing it would be too difficult to see his friends moving on without him. She had told him that he would only see the truth by facing it. He was beginning to understand what she had meant.

None of the students had so far working up the courage to ask about his face and Minerva had started a staff sweepstake on which year and house would be first. Tristan has surprised everyone by choosing his 1st year Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw class. When he had explained that they had been the first to question his dislike of robes, he had given many of the more judgemental staff members something to think about. For himself, Tristan would rather the question didn't come up at all. He had no desire to answer questions about Lusa, but was realistic enough to realise how unlikely he was to make it the entire way through the year without her being found out. He just hoped no one would do something stupid. Besides, he missed her.

That was why Saturday morning found Tristan walking easily through the Forbidden Forest in search of his pet. Sighing in frustration as yet another trail suddenly ended for no apparent reason, he began to back track towards the last place he was sure he had been following _Lusa's _trail, only to find his way blocked by someone… or something.

"Hi Mickey. Have you seen Lusa?"

"Don't call me that." The man snapped, flicking his massive white wings in irritation, "And no, I haven't seen that hell spawn you call a pet."

Tristan blinked slowly, "Okay. Is there a reason you're in the Forbidden Forest, angel boy?"

'Mickey's' eyes flashed fire at the new nickname and then sneered, "You're Obsidian, _boy._ What are you doing on Earth?"

Tristan sighed and leaned against a nearby tree, "You remember the prophecy? The one that says I have to duke it out with Voldemort?"

"_Harry Potter_ has to duke it out with Voldemort, yes, but _you_ are Tristan Daimonas by your own choice."

"Are you trying to tell me that changing my name and having Lusa rip half my face off means that damned prophecy doesn't apply to me anymore?" disbelief tinged Tristan's voice and was visible on his face as he stepped towards the winged man.

Mickey began to snigger.

Suddenly realising that the angel had been taking the total piss out of him, Tristan growled at him, an action that had the unintended side effect of sending the other being to the ground in gales of laughter.

Tristan sighed and returned to his place against the tree, waiting for the angel to regain his composure.

"Now, have you seen Lusa?"

"No." Mickey was suddenly serious again, "I spoke to Nychta last night. She's worried that none of your Order can back you up here. If we're right about Voldemort's plan, then you're going to need help."

"You volunteered?"

"No, I _was_ volunteered. Gaby is having too much trouble right now as it is, with the last break in. Jade are trying to block every access to Hell there is. And don't even get me started on Blood. They're about as reliable as rain in a desert. That leaves Silver and Obsidian. Nychta has her hands full trying to control the influx of souls from Voldemort's campaign. You know what murder victims are like…" Mickey trailed off, shrugging, "That leaves Silver as the only backup available."

"Have you spoken with Tannin or any of the high ranking Torturers?"

"You do know they hate that name almost as much as Gold hates being called, 'Gaby's Grunts'?"

"Probably why we call them it," Tristan smirked back, "and for that matter, I've heard Silver using those nicknames as well."

Mickey shrugged, "They are catchy, although I never want to know where you got the 'Damned and Demented' from."

Tristan laughed as he shook his head at the Leader of the Silver Order, "Better then these stupid colours."

"On that my friend, I have to agree."

They began to walk towards the school, thoughts of finding Lusa momentarily driven from Tristan's mind at the knowledge the Nychta's 'help' had arrived. Plus, he actually liked Mickey, which was more then could be said for Gaby. Of the Five Orders of Light and Dark, Silver and Obsidian were the only ones to really push the 'United Front' into reality, willing backing each other up. That was mainly due to Mickey and Nychta making the effort to put aside their differences a few thousand years ago and since their areas of responsibility often overlapped; it had proved a godsend more then once. Silver were the guardians of living souls, responsible for trying to guide humanity. At the moment of their death, a person's soul became the responsibility of the Obsidian Order, where they were judged and then send to whatever afterlife their actions on Earth had earned them.

When Tristan had joined, being the first human-side to directly join the Obsidian Order, it had been the Silver Order Nychta had sent him to for the support none of them could provide. It had also been Mickey and Shiva, his second in command, who had snuck him past the Gold Order, into heaven to see his parents and Sirius before they were reincarnated. And although he had sworn them to secrecy about it, it had been Mickey who had made sure the Jade Order, the guardians of hell, were distracted enough not to notice when Tristan and Nychta had snuck in to hell in search of the creature that had nearly killed the young human-side only a few months before and it had been his vote that had allowed Tristan to bring Lusa out of hell as his familiar three weeks later.

They were just leaving the forest when the soft brush of Mickey's wings against his bare arm caught Tristan's attention, "Eh, Mickey? Wings?"

The other man blinked once and then faintly coloured as he realised what Tristan meant. A moment later, the massive wings were gone. The faint glow that always surrounded the angels also disappeared, making him seem, while still unnaturally beautiful, more human as they walked across the open grass towards the school.

"I assume we're going to your quarters?"

"Yeah, I've got all the wardings up there already and I have coke."

"Coke is good." Mickey acknowledged.

Tristan smirked; the angels' racial addiction to caffeine had been a major source of entertainment for everyone in the Orders that wasn't one for years. Of course, Tristan had yet to meet a demon who wasn't addicted to chocolate, himself included.

"Do you have chocolate?"

"Of course." Tristan said airily causing his companion to laugh. They entered the school.

Mickey, of course, immediately began to get attention, mainly of the feminine kind, making Tristan have to fight to keep the amusement from showing on his face. After all it wasn't every day an insanely beautiful, six foot six, blonde man walked into the school. Tristan giggled, unable to help himself as he watched Mickey smile benignly and try not to glare. Tristan could easily acknowledge that Mickey deserved the attention, having been somewhat in the same boat as the students the first time he had met the archangel. Of course, at the time, Tristan had also just begun to figure some things out about himself that had left him even more confused about the transformation that had made him a member of the Obsidian Guard. At the time, he hadn't known what was himself and what was just the result of being made part demon. Nychta and Mickey had been all that held him together in those first few depressing, disturbing and terrifying months.

Of course, there were a few other things that had helped cause the students reaction to the literal angel in their midst… while Tristan preferred fairly baggy combats trousers or jeans, Mickey's blue jeans were just an inch too loose to be called skin tight and they were _fitted._ His white T-shirt looked _painted_ on and he moved with the same wolf cautious grace so evident in Tristan, but where as Tristan was a solitary predator, Mickey was a pack leader and it showed. Tristan speeded up slightly, knowing how uncomfortable the attention of the younger students would make the archangel. Even so, he closed the door of his quarters in more then one disappointed face after Mickey had entered.

The older guardian flopped down into one of the chairs and glared at the print across from him, spreading his reappeared wings out to either side of him. None of the angels liked concealing their wings. Shiva once told Tristan it was because the loss of the weight threw them off balance.

"_Death on a Pale Horse_? You always did have weird taste, Tristan."

Tristan grunted as he left the other man to his glaring and went to get the coke, and the chocolate, dumping both the cans and the bars onto the coffee table when he came back. Mickey had made himself useful and put some music, Cannibal Corpse of all things, on before switching on the laptop. A few moments later, he had accessed the Gatehouse and was busy entering the codes what would give him access to the records kept by the Orders. He grunted a little and snagged one of the cans from beside him, "Right, from what we've been able to find out, Voldemort has somehow been able to get in contact with a deviant. We don't know who did it and quite frankly I don't think anyone cares. What worries us, is that first someone got into hell, which is meant to be impossible and secondly that whoever done it was powerful enough, or a fast enough talker that they managed to get the deviant's attention off how nice they'd taste barbequed long enough to make a deal with them."

Tristan nodded; his lips quirking a little at the last comment, "So that's why Jade are running around like headless chickens?"

Mickey nodded once and then brought up a pan dimensional map, "Here and here are the two weakest points. We have to assume they got through one or the other. There simply isn't anywhere else they can have got through. Well, there isn't anywhere else Jade will admit to anyway." Mickey shrugged, "This is the one I'm more inclined to keep an eye on." He slowly traced a finger along the screen.

"The Black Country? Why?"

Mickey shrugged, "The other one opens into Downtown Manhattan. If deviants were appearing there, they'd have been on CNN by now."

"Oh." Tristan, "What about the old summoning rituals?"

"First, whoever cast it would have to know the difference between the demons, angels and deviants. Then they'd have to know about the Orders and after that they'd have to be able to speak the language the ritual was written in well enough to alter it without killing themselves. All together, that's pretty unlikely."

"Haven't there been cases where someone directly summoned a deviant? I'm sure Nychta said something about them…"

"Yeah, it's happened. Obsidian was usually the ones sent after them, so Nicky would know. It looks mainly like they lucked out to be honest and made the correct mistake to change it. They might have had some outside influences, but they didn't get it to work because they knew what they were doing."

A knock on the door made both men jump. Mickey hit a button on the screen that broke the connection to the Gatehouse and Tristan opened the door.

"Minerva, what can I do for you?"

"Tristan, the students were saying you had a guest. I was wondering if he would be attending dinner."

Tristan hesitated for a moment and then turned slightly sideways, so that he and Minerva could see Mickey, but the deputy headmistress wouldn't be able to enter the room around him, "You fancy eating in the great hall?"

Mickey considered it for a moment, before shaking his head and thanking Minerva for the offer, "… actually, will you be eating there, Tristan?"

"I had planned on it, but that was before I ran into you."

"I'm sure the headmaster would like to meet you…" Minerva trailed of, and looked expectantly at the angel. Her eyes widened suddenly. Noticing her look, Tristan focused on his friend and suddenly paled. He grabbed Minerva and jerked her into the room, closing the door even as Mickey realised what had happened and started swearing.

Minerva stood there, looking between the two people… or the young man and the… whatever he was. With fluid grace, Mickey stood up and moved around to stand on front of her, tilting her head up to he could look into her eyes. He didn't really need to do it, but it looked impressive and gave the person the impression that a great deal of power was focused on them. It was only then, as he held her head that Minerva realised the man was glowing softly.

"We can trust her."

Tristan shrugged, "I know."

"But you haven't told her anything?"

"I didn't think there was a reason to."

Mickey nodded, still looking into Minerva's eyes, "Change back."

Tristan raised an eyebrow, "You sure?"

"Yes."

Mickey turned Minerva's head slightly and she watched wide eyed as Tristan began to change on front of her eyes. His eyes were first, slowly lightening to killing curse green, the pupils changing to slits, like a cat. His jaw and cheekbones shifted slightly and he smiled at her, flashing fangs. He raised a clawed hand to push his hair back behind his suddenly pointed ears. Minerva's eyes were fixated by the black nails, "What… what are you?"

"Will you let us explain everything before running to Dumbledore, or should we just _obliviate_ you?"

"I'll listen." She said softly turning back to Mickey.

"Sit down."

She did.

Tristan sighed once and ran his claws through his hair, "To answer your question, I'm part human, part demon. I started out human, but then I joined the Obsidian Order, I had to undergo a ritual… thing… that turned me into a member of the Order. I can choose to look like a human if I want to, since that was my original race. This is what I really look like. Mickey over there is a full blooded, bono fide angel, archangel even."

Minerva blinked and looked at Mickey, "Archangel…"

He glared at an unrepentant Tristan and then nodded to Minerva, "Michael. I got nicknamed 'Mickey' by another member of the Obsidian Order a while ago and never quite managed to get rid of it. Tristan started a whole new trend with nicknames when he joined us."

"You're in this Order as well then?" It was obvious Minerva didn't know what to think.

Mickey sighed, "There are five orders, Gold, Silver, Obsidian, Jade and Blood. Each of them is responsible for a certain area. I'm the leader of the Silver Order. Our primary duty is to guide humanity and where necessary push things into happening a certain way. Tristan is a member of the Obsidian Order. They are the Pathway Guards; basically they guard the paths between dimensions and they are also in charge of judging the dead. They are the primary hunters as well, tracking down anything that escapes hell, or anywhere else."

"I see. The others…" she trailed off.

Tristan shifted, "The 'bright n' shinys', Gold, they guard heaven and put souls in bodies, stuff like that. Jade are the guards for hell. They also do the retribution and punishment bits. Blood are complicated. Technically they are responsible for Repenters."

"Repenters?"

"Let me put it like this, Obsidian are the judges. Jade are the prison guards and Blood are the probation officers and defence barristers."

Minerva nodded dazedly.

"Once they bring someone out of hell, they are then responsible for proving that the person is no longer a danger, and will actually redeem themselves. We call them the 'Damned and Demented' for a reason."

"Why are you here?"

"I'm just visiting." Mickey said.

"Teaching children?" Tristan asked glibly and got a glare in reply.

"Basically I'm here to deal with Voldemort. The bad news is; I can't do anything about him until some very important criteria are met. Hence, the teaching children."

"I…"

A look passed between Mickey and Tristan as Minerva struggled to assimilate what they had told her.

"You have to tell the headmaster." Both men turned to look at her in shock.

"I'm serious; he is the leader of the light. You have to tell him."

"Technically, Gaby is the leader of the light." Mickey said.

"Minerva, Albus can't be told."

"Tristan, you have to tell…" she stood up sharply.

"No." Tristan sighed and walking over put his hands on her shoulders, "Once upon a time, Dumbledore was a great man, but that time is over. Power corrupts, Minerva and Dumbledore has had too much power for too long."

"Albus has done everything for this world…"

Mickey sighed and said softy "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions. There is no greater good, Minerva. Dumbledore's actions damned him a long time ago."

Minerva staggered and only Tristan's hands on her shoulders stopped her falling, "You mean Albus…"

Mickey and Tristan shared another look before the archangel spoke, "Albus Dumbledore is hell bound."

* * *

**Authors Notes:** Short Chapter**-** only 3027 words long. My average for this story should be around 6000 words per chapter, so that's a little disappointing, but there was just nothing to be added after that last line. And of course, not much happened either. Mickey got introduced and the make up of the Orders of Light and Dark were explained. They're important to the plot. My mum's a probation officer- I really couldn't help the dig. Not sure she'll appreciate the joke though. We also found out a little more about Lusa and McGonagall finds out some interesting titbits about Tristan. Oh, and now we know why Tristan went to all the trouble to make his laptop work. Reads like a filler chapter, sorry. On the plus side, check out my profile for cookies for the next chapter. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:**I am making no money from this. Anything recognised from Harry Potter belongs to JKR and her affiliates. Anything from the various religions comes from them and probably belongs to them. Anything totally unrecognisable is the result of my warped imagination and perverted sense of justice. No animals, humans, demons, angels, gods, witches, wizards or giant squids were harmed in the writing of this work of fan-fiction.

**Warning:**Depending on how much attention you were paying to the last chapter, you may or may not have noticed a hint of one of the directions this fiction is going in. So, before you get too engrossed in this chapter, this story will contain _slash_.

**Chapter 2; Regrets**

Minerva was lying down in Tristan's bedroom and the other two were talking quietly in the living room. They were currently going over Minerva Persephone McGonagall's record and arguing about a course of action. Tristan leaned back, absently running his tongue over his fangs, "I still say she won't be able to handle it."

Mickey tapped the screen, "I think she'll be alright."

"She's going to run to Dumbledore. She might be able to deal, but she's also fanatically loyal to him."

Mickey sighed and leaned back. Tristan moved around the back of the other man and began to massage the point just above where his wings met his back. Mickey began to purr. A few moments later, his T-shirt disappeared and Tristan began to dig his claws in harder. The angel arched, tying simultaneously to pull away from the claws and push harder against them as Tristan found the knot that he always developed after spending a lot of time on the ground. The wings were heavy.

"Fanaticism is never…ahhh… pretty" Mickey agreed, his eyes closing of their own accord, "But I think we can snap her out of it."

Tristan found a particularly tense bit and went to work, "After watching her for five years, I disagree. I vote for obliviating her ASAP. I like Minerva, but she's too used to seeing Dumbledore as infallible. By the time she comes back in here she will have managed to convince herself that Dumbledore has a way out of hell planned."

"Fine, fine, if she has, we obliviate her. If she's actually thinking about it, we give her time. Agreed?"

Tristan grunted in agreement and let the matter drop, instead turning his full attention to the feel of the angel's skin beneath his claws and the soft sounds of relief and pleasure issuing from the mouth of the man sitting on front of him.

"I've missed this…" he murmured softly.

"You've only been here a week."

"I know."

Mickey reached up and pulled Tristan down so the young human-side was pressed tight against his back, almost uncomfortably compressing his right wing between them. Then he twisted slightly in the circle of Tristan's arms to wrap his own around the other man, "You will be home soon enough."

Relaxing into the embrace of one of the very few people he truly loved, Tristan nodded against Mickey's shoulder, "I hope so. The more time I spend here, the more I realise I don't belong here anymore."

They stayed like that, simply enjoying the physical contact, until movement from the bedroom made them separate. Mickey pulled his T-shirt on as the door began to open and Tristan went into the kitchen for more coke… and chocolate. He definitely needed chocolate.

Minerva was surprising quiet as she sipped her coke and watched them arguing about Voldemort. Mickey was in favour of sending a scout into hell to try to determine where the deviants were meeting with Voldemort's messenger and trying to mess them up, but Tristan was in favour of waiting for the Direct Deviant Action that would give him the needed clearance to act.

"We don't know how long Voldemort will hold them back for."

"And I can do jack shit until the deal goes through! We need proof that the deviants are involved before Obsidian can take action."

"I don't understand?" The soft voice made both men jump.

Tristan ran his hand through his hair and sighed, "One of the Obsidian Orders jobs is to hunt down deviants who escape hell and force them back. The same rules that allow us access to Earth to hunt also prevent us coming here without reason. Until Voldemort actually uses the deviants, my hands are tied. I can't actively participate in the war."

Mickey decided to add something then, taking his queue from Tristan, "That was why that prophecy was made, Harry Potter was meant to have gained access to Heaven's Power, thus negating the need to wait for DDA, Direct Deviant Action. He could fight Voldemort on his own terms and win. Then Dumbledore screwed it up."

"What do you mean?"

Tristan flashed an irritated glare at Mickey; this wasn't something he liked thinking about. With one move, the old man had come very close to damning both him and the world. The archangel ignored him.

"Heaven's Power is specific. It's used to do certain things in certain circumstances by certain people. To access it you need to be a pure soul and to control it you have to be a Holy Warrior. Dumbledore managed to ensure that Harry Potter would be neither, first by leaving him in a place he would know only hate and then by not training him when he had the chance."

"You mean the Dursleys?"

Mickey nodded, "Among other things. In his bid to make or break the boy, he ensured that Voldemort would win their confrontation."

Minerva opened her mouth to say something else and then closed it. She shook herself then, more like a dog then a cat and asked, "But he thought he was right?"

Realising what she wanted, Mickey nodded once, "Dumbledore is a firm believer in the 'greater good'. He believes that anything he does can be justified if it helps someone in the long run. The problem is that there a no 'greater good'. All there really are is choices and actions. Dumbledore doesn't want to see that."

"And Harry Potter?"

"A pawn Dumbledore was willing to sacrifice." Tristan said, obviously irritated, "Dumbledore may not be minister of magic, but he still wields the power. He had no right, legal or otherwise to do anything to or with Harry Potter. The attack, if that's what you're asking about, looked like the work of deviants, but there is no evidence to support it, nor any indication that a portal was opened. No one upstairs is giving us any answers either."

In reality, Mickey mused, they weren't getting any answers because Gaby didn't agree with letting Tristan return to Earth. Minerva was still shuck up, but that was to be expected as she rose to leave. She had all of the next day to sort through her thoughts and decide her stance. Tristan's words came back to him, was she so devoted to him that she wouldn't be able to see past Dumbledore's blinding light? Only time would tell. His mind was dragged back to the present when Minerva said good bye, and smiling shyly reminded him that she had never got an answer to her original question. A quick glance at Tristan told Mickey that he didn't care either way, so he decided to give the girls one last chance to ogle him and graciously decided to go to dinner. It was only after Minerva left that he realised he had no idea what time it was at.

Dinner, was a rather interesting affair, Tristan mused as he watched a third year Hufflepuff miss her mouth with a spoonful a stew. The girl's eyes were on the person sitting beside him. For some reason, one lost in the mists of time and Heaven's Power, or more likely Michael being a twit, the angel had chosen to leave his angelic aura up and running, although only extended along the faculty table. Thankfully, to Tristan's mind, he wasn't glowing, and the effect the aura was having on the other people at the table was… interesting. Unlike the demonic aura that Tristan had been suppressing the entire time he had been at the school, an angelic one wasn't designed to cause fear, confusion or any one of the multitude of other emotions Tristan could draw from a human, it was designed to make people question themselves and to encourage understanding, to literally take about their belief in themselves. It could alternatively sooth and question, but it lacked the sheer _danger_ that seemed to seep from a demon when they weren't holding it back. But then, the demons were the original heaven's army, right up until about three thousand years ago, when the reshuffle had created the Orders of Light and Dark in place of the choirs and armies. Of course, back then they had had better names as well.

Minerva, as expected, was in a world of her own, but both Snape and Dumbledore were acting like they were sitting on nettles or something similar, shifting uncomfortably ever few moments. Flitwick and Vector were eyeing Mickey like they would like to get him alone for a while, proof positive that the two most intelligent of the professors had put two and two together and realised who was causing the unusual sensations. Pomfrey, surprising was reacting rather like the potions professor and headmaster, which Mickey had also noticed and was eyeing curiously. Race-Norris was also not doing too well and was ashen faced and barely touching his food. Sprout, Hooch and Hagrid all appeared completely unaffected. Anthony De Beau, the muggle studies professor hadn't come to dinner. Interesting indeed, Tristan thought absently. It was easy to figure out what had Dumbledore and Snape so jumpy, but Race-Norris had checked out clear when they had ran his file earlier and Pomfrey, as a healer, shouldn't have been effected by the aura at all.

Mickey decided to leave shortly after dinner ended. Flitwick and Vector had been showing entirely too much interest in him and he didn't want to risk another argument with Tristan when he looked like he was going to loose the last one. Minerva was gradually reaching the decision to talk to Dumbledore. When she tried it, she was going to get a nasty shock, but that was beside the point. Mickey hated being wrong when it came to humans. He had been sure she'd see sense, but Tristan was being proven right with every thought that passed through her head. Tristan himself, grunted as he watched the angel draw the last gateway rune in the centre of the duelling chamber. He would have preferred him to stay the night. A week of sleeping alone had not only reminded him how much he hated it, but had also made him more homesick then anything else so far. Demons were naturally tactile creatures, so were angels. It made for some interesting sleeping arrangements. None the less, he stepped forward and added his seal to the runes. As a member of Silver, Mickey didn't actually need one of the Pathway Guards to open the gate for him, but it was still easier than doing it himself and as long as Tristan was willing…

"I'll get Tannin or Nychta to send a scout, with orders not to interfere and send someone to keep an eye on the Black Country." Mickey said softly as he watched the glow begin to spread.

"Ok. I'll be waiting here. Don't forget to update me."

Smiling, Mickey moved to stand in front of the human-side, "Of course not." Then he cupped Tristan's chin in the palm of his hand and lowered his lips to the other man's. The kiss was soft and gentle, an acknowledgment of separation and of friendship, rather then an attempt to arouse. Tristan moaned into it and responded. They broke apart as gently as they had come together a moment later and Mickey stepped into the light, letting it spread over him. A few moments later, he reached out and altered some of the runes and was gone in a flash of light.

Tristan sighed, pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. Then, fag in mouth, he walked back into the living room, changing back to human as he did so. His loneliness came back ten fold when he noticed a white feather on the floor, near the chair Mickey had claimed. Surrounded by humans, separated from everyone he had come to see as family and friends, his own power bound so as not to arouse suspicion, in the first place he had ever called home, Tristan suddenly felt completely and utterly alone.

The next morning Tristan didn't attend breakfast. He hadn't attended on the first day either, but given his companion of the day before and the fact that no one had seen Mickey leave, several rumours were doing the rounds by lunchtime. A surprising number of girls, and quite a few boys, went quite gooey eyed at the idea of their mysterious DSADA teacher and his beautiful friend getting it on together. The more reasonable students suggested they were more likely to have stayed up late talking the previous night and as a result, slept in. Minerva McGonagall was also noticeable in her absence and a few of the more perverted students wondered if she had sat up 'talking' with them. This resulted in said students nursing bruised arms, legs and chests as their fellow students made their opinion of that idea known… painfully.

When Tristan missed lunch, even the more reasonable students began to speculate. The most reasonable, however, pointed out that many teachers missed several meals on days when they didn't need to be there. For example, Snape only came to the bare minimum of meals in the hall. Those teachers who were aware of the speculation were unsure themselves what to think. There was something very strange about 'Mickey'. For that matter, there was something strange about Tristan as well, it just wasn't as obvious. Flitwick and Vector had spent most of the previous evening either pouring over Arithmancy equations or prowling the corridors nears Tristan's quarters, waiting for Mickey to leave. Minerva, who had made lunch, was still in whatever world she had been inhabiting since the previous evening to the point of looking almost shocked when Dumbledore has asked if she felt alright. She had waved him off and gone back to looking for answers in her salad. Two people at least noticed that she couldn't look the headmaster in the eye.

Tristan made his first appearance of the day at dinner, where he took the sea beside Minerva without looking at her. He looked tired… and sad. Mickey was nowhere to be seen. A look flashed across his face and he looked up sharply, his eyes flashing over the students and then he grimaced, "For anyone who is wondering, Mickey left late last night." He seemed about to say more, but then changed his mind. There was no point in encouraging them. Disappointed sounds drifted up to him, but Minerva looked up sharply and frowned at him, "I thought…"

Tristan merely shrugged, obviously unwilling to talk about it.

"A most… unusual man." Dumbledore said from further down the table.

"He's a good friend."

"When did you meet him?"

"My last job. He supervised a different department and I got sent to him for cross training."

"I see." A calculated expression had appeared on Dumbledore's face, "I had hoped to get a chance to talk to him. You must let me know the next time he visits?"

"I'll mention it to him."

Dumbledore go the distinct impression that Tristan really wasn't going to, but he let the matter go, not at all sure he wanted to spend any more time in a room with such a… disconcerting presence.

Minerva blinked and turned back to her dinner.

Tristan didn't hang around after the meal had ended, neatly avoiding both Vector and Flitwick, he escaped back to his rooms to take his frustration out on the equipment in the duelling room, namely, the punching bag. Determined to get over the funk he had been in all day, he purposely turned his attention to something that annoyed him, hoping that anger was the cure.

The previous week had gone reasonably well, but for one thing; the more time Tristan spent with the students, the more he realised how dependant they were on The Boy Who Lived. It was almost as if the younger years had been taught that he was their only protection. They truly believed that they couldn't win without him. It was aggravating, irritating and Tristan thought he knew who was behind it. After all, above everything else Harry Potter had to be controllable and what better way to do that then to saddle him with the expectations of every child in the world?

Still, he found it annoying that his own year mates had been as dependant as they had. They knew him or at least he had thought that they had. The punching bag swung away from him and he paused to catch his breath. Even Ron and Hermione seemed to miss The Boy Who Lived rather then their friend. He had never known how much of Ron's popularity had been because he was Harry Potter's friend, nor had he ever realised how much of Hermione's respect was because of him. Rather then being 'The Golden Trio' as he had thought they had been, it had been closer the Gryffindor Golden Boy and His Two Best Friends. Hermione in particular seemed to resent him for his 'death' and the loss of respect for her it had resulted in. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Although his didn't have to spend any time in his office on Sundays, he made his way there after taking a quick shower. For one thing, he had left the essays he had started marking there and for another, he wanted out of his quarters before the loneliness really got to him.

His office was quiet, and a silencing charm on the door ensured that he was undisturbed. He stood for a few moments in front of the stereo, staring at it, not sure he wanted music, but finding the silence oppressive. With a heartfelt sigh, he flopped down into the chair and tilted it back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, his thoughts chasing each other around his head like a carousel on high speed.

He didn't want to be here. Eight years as part of the Obsidian Order and two before that alternating between Silver, Jade and Obsidian had given him a new perspective on things and a new understanding of the universe, one where 'Good' and 'Bad', 'right' and 'wrong' were nothing more the excuses tossed at their feet by the terrified souls of the damned. In the eight years he had served as one of the Blind Judges, he had heard people try to justify everything from paedophilia to adultery to murder. The 'greater good' was a pretty common excuse. But in the hands of a man who was willing to justify damning the innocent to redeem the fallen, it was a difficult weapon to truly fight. Particularly when most adults seemed willing to let him. To make the children realise the truth, he would have to destroy Albus Dumbledore, but that move could very well hand Voldemort the world.

The rest of the 6th year Gryffindor and Slytherin and 2nd year Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw essays were corrected and had been dumped haphazardly into the baskets hanging in the wall beside the door. There was a basket for each class. Minerva had clued him in on the easy way to keep the homework organised and Tristan was just starting on the 3rd Gryffindor and Slytherin class when a knock on the door distracted him.

"Come in." He was expecting Minerva, Vector or Hooch, so it was with some surprise that he leaned back in his chair and watched Ginny Weasley look around the room, her eyes wide as she took in the stationary posters.

"Miss Weasley is there something I can do for you?" he asked calmly.

"I…" she hesitated, "I suppose I just… I don't know. I need someone who doesn't know… a…a teacher I can talk to about this without the weight of the last five years behind me."

"Which is Professor Race-Norris or I."

"Yeah…"

He motioned her to sit down across from him and offered her a tea or a coke.

"Coke?"

"A muggle drink with a lot of caffeine in it. The...some of my friends are practically addicted to it, so I always have some here in case."

Ginny smiled and said she'd try it.

"You can look through the CDs and pick out something to put on if you want. I'll only be a moment."

Looking through the boxes that Professor Daimonas has pointed towards, Ginny was at a loss, not recognising any of the bands or images. She eventually just pressed the button that said play on it and the sound of a single cello filled the air. It was joined by another and another and another and then a drumbeat began in the background. It was unlike anything she had ever heard before and she sat there mesmerized by it until the professor reappeared and startled her.

"You like?" he asked.

"Yes. I've never heard anything like them…"

"Apoclyptica are unique. They're one of my favourite bands." He smiled at her, "You just pressed play didn't you?"

Ginny blushed and nodded slowly, "I didn't recognise any of the band names."

"Ahh… I apologise, Miss Weasley. I didn't realise you wouldn't know any muggle bands.

Ginny mumbled something and opened her can of coke. Taking a gulp, she started choking, not having realised there were bubbles it in. No drinks in the wizarding world were carbonated.

Professor Daimonas waited until she got herself back under control and then said, "Now, Miss Weasley, how can I help you?"

Ginny took a deep breath and said quietly, "You know Harry… Harry Potter used to attend Hogwarts?"

He made a confirming noise.

"He… I…" she signed, "He used to be my brother's best friend. The Golden Trio, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, but then… then he died. I really _liked_ him and after last year I thought we were at least going to be friends and then he up and does this! And everyone is blaming _him_ like it was his fault he died!"

"I see." Tristan said slowly, "How do you feel about it?"

"I don't think it was his fault. But… he was the Boy-Who-Lived. He was our hero, our saviour. He should have taken better care of himself."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He should have asked for help… I mean, his relatives, they didn't treat him very well and Dumbledore… well he wouldn't let him leave, but he was always pushing people away, always trying to do stuff alone. It wasn't fair to the rest of us! And then he goes and upsets some muggles enough to bomb him! Didn't he even think about what his death would do to the rest of us? No one knows what to think anymore."

Anger flashed through Tristan, but he quickly stifled it, he wasn't Harry Potter anymore. As much as he wanted to vent at the girl who still seen him as a hero, he couldn't.

"Sounds like you do blame him."

"I don't!"

"Was he a superhero?"

"No, of course not."

"Did he live alone?"

"No."

"Then why did you automatically assume he was the one the muggles were trying to kill when they bombed the house?"

"Well… he was always in trouble. It wasn't always his fault, but…"

"So in the month he was at home, he managed to piss off a muggle who had the connections to gun-runners to be able to get a bomb on very short notice? Isn't it more likely to have been his guardians they were trying to kill?"

"I…"

Miss Weasley, are you angry at him for dying? Or for leaving _you_?"

Ginny froze and Tristan's suspicions were confirmed.

"Grief is a strange thing, Miss Granger. And the only cure or bandage for it is time. Maybe you should be looking at why his death has caused you such a wound and less on raging over what happened? I'm not going to offer useless platitudes or tell you off for what you are feeling. Even Professor Snape can't control his emotions, only his reactions to them. I'm not even going to tell you it gets better over time. If he was your friend, you will always miss him and a part pf you will always hurt."

"I… I loved him."

"Did he love you?"

"I… I don't think he noticed me. I was just Ron's little sister who he saved from the Chamber of Secrets. He cared for me and I'm sure he would have started to love me given time, but… no, last year, we only became friends."

"Then maybe the real pain is for that might have been?"

"Maybe… I was waiting for him to get his head out of his arse and pay attention though…" she slammed her hands over her mouth and he eyes widened as she realised what she was saying.

Tristan laughed and then he turned serious, "What if he never did feel that way about you? What if he started thinking of you as a sister instead?"

She sighed, "I don't think he would have. I was Ron's sister to him, not his. If he had of had enough time, he would have loved me. I'm sure of it."

Tristan nodded and a comfortable silence descended over them.

"Can I ask a question?" Ginny broke the silence.

"Yes."

"What happened to your face?"

Tristan leaned back and traced the scar over his eye gently, "My familiar… or the creature that eventually became my familiar anyway. The first time I ran into her wasn't in the best of circumstances."

"Oh… what is she?"

He waved the question away, "It's nearly curfew Miss Weasley. You should get back to your common room."

"Good night Professor." Ginny stood to leave.

"Miss Weasley? Another thought before you leave, which do you miss more, the boy or the hero?" He stood up and shooed her out, closing the door behind her, before she could answer. He hadn't meant to say that and it worried him that he was being this catty to his ex-friends. He doubted that he would be recognised by it, but… Maybe he just wasn't used to being this out of control anymore.

Monday morning dawned cold and blustery. Summer was well and truly over. Rather then risk any further gossip, Tristan had made breakfast in the great hall. He slouched back in his chair, a cup of coffee clasped in his hands as he tried to force his still half asleep brain to work. The situation at the school was being to improve. The Hufflepuff students along with the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor lower years had finally begun to snap out of their depression over the death of the Boy-Who-Lived. But more importantly the upcoming Gryffindor Vs Slytherin Quidditch match had begun to distract everyone. Gryffindor was frantically trying to reorganise their team and Slytherin were practically celebrating their victory already.

Outside the school, things were still moving slowly and he had yet to hear from anyone about the situation. Either Mickey didn't have anything to report yet, or he had forgotten his promise to keep the human-side informed. Either way he was stuck here until he got permission to act and he had his ex-friends for his first class.

Absently, he heaved himself up from the table and made his way out of the hall, his mind a million miles away in another dimension.

For the first time since he had arrived at the school, Tristan reached the classroom before the students. It was a strange experience, he found, waiting for them to arrive. He could see what Snape had always gotten so annoyed with tardiness now. The class trooped in a minute before the bell rang. Watching them take their seats, Tristan finally came out of his contemplative daze, focusing his attention on the students, "Last week we discussed the current attitude to 'Dark' and 'Light'. This week, we're going to put it in the context of history. Next week, if everyone gets at least an A on their homework, we'll move onto defensive and offensive theory." He looked around, "I assume everyone read the three assigned chapters? Good. Miss Patil, your opinion please on the result of the 1824 Werewolf Registration Act in Germany?"

"It pushed the werewolves into joining the Dark Lady Xantia and made many of the other so-called Dark Creatures join him as well, out of fear that they would be targeted as well."

"Good. Miss Bulstrode, the attitude of the then German Ministry of Magic was derived from which theory?"

"Ehh… Arbaker's theory of Magical Resonance?"

"Explain the theory?"

"Exposure to dark magic would lead to dark magic tainting you."

"Correct. 5 points to both houses."

"Mr Thomas, that theory was disproved in?"

"1959, by Wendy Wintrop."

"Mr Malfoy, please explain the proof and its impact?"

For a moment, he thought Malfoy wasn't going to answer, then the Slytherin sat up straighter and said, "She disproved it by marrying a Dark Wizard and then after he died eighty years later, had her own magic tested. That proved that she had never used Dark Magic and her magic was untainted by it. As for its impact, there was none. Most people ignore the existence of the proof."

"Very good, Mr Malfoy. 10 points to Slytherin. Now, why has that been ignored? Anyone?"

Hermione raised her hand and Tristan nodded to her.

"Despite the proof, most people rightly see Dark Magic as evil and beings, human or otherwise that are influenced by it are labelled the same way. Rather then try to categorize Dark Magic, the ministries chose to keep the original 1819 definitions. It didn't help that Grindelwald had only just been defeated as well."

"10 points to Gryffindor.

The class continued, but Tristan couldn't quite shake the coldness that had settled into him from Hermione's answer.

Five minutes before the end of the class, Tristan handed out the homework. Most of the class weren't too surprised by their mark, although there had been a few surprises. Malfoy raised an eyebrow in surprise at his O and Ron seemed shocked to have gotten an EE, but Hermione Granger was not happy with her mark. Her hand shot into the air.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Professor, are you sure this mark is right?"

Everyone went quiet as Tristan made his way over to her and looked at the A on top of her page before reading the first few lines.

"Yes, Miss Granger, it is right. I was very disappointed. After everything I had heard about you, I was expecting to be giving you a much higher mark."

"But… but why?"

Tristan leaned against Neville's desk and looked at her, "The question was to explain _your_ understanding of 'light' and 'dark' Miss Granger, not to vomit the official definitions at me. You also failed to justify any of them beyond a three page version of 'If the ministry or headmaster says so, then it is.' I find that attitude useless in DSADA and worrying because it is the first step to fanaticism. It was defiantly not what I asked for."

"I see." Her eyes narrowed and the bell rang.

Ron grabbed her hand and pulled her from the room as Tristan watched

Outside, she pulled herself free and glared at him.

"Come on Mione, it's just an essay."

"No, Ron, it isn't. He gave Malfoy an O! Malfoy who is as dark as they come! He's evil Ron and he's trying to corrupt us!" she hissed. Then she spun on her heel and marched away. Ron hesitated for a moment and then followed.

Inside the now empty classroom, Tristan closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Whatever chance he had of converting Minerva, gut instinct said Hermione Granger was already lost. Sighing, he began to tidy the room, wondering if he should feel worse about the future Hermione was heading towards or if he should be more focused on trying to make sure Ron didn't follow her. No answers where forthcoming. His next class arrived, distracting his thoughts from his former friends and Tristan resolutely turned his attention away from the problem. It was Silver's job to help Mione, not his.

"Right kids! Wands out. Today we're going to be practising the stunning spell. Mr McCarthy, can you tell me the purpose of this spell?"

"It knocks someone unconscious, sir."

"5 points to Hufflepuff. Did everyone check the counter charm?"

There were murmurs of confirmation.

"Miss Gregory?"

"_Ennervate!"_

"5 points to Ravenclaw. Now pair up and get practising!" Yes… it was out of his hands. Hermione Granger would stand or fall on her own choices. He wouldn't take that away from her like Dumbledore, the Order and even Hermione herself had done to him.

* * *

Another chapter up. Quite a bit longer then the last one...

Review please...


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:**I am making no money from this. Anything recognised from Harry Potter belongs to JKR and her affiliates. Anything from the various religions comes from them and probably belongs to them. Anything totally unrecognisable is the result of my warped imagination and perverted sense of justice. No animals, humans, demons, angels, gods, witches, wizards or giant squids were harmed in the writing of this work of fan-fiction.

Author's Note: This is only Part 1. I'm hoping that seeing this up with jog my muse a bit and get the creative juices flowing. I will post the next chapter at the same time as the rest of this chapter to it will show as an update. Please review- I need something to get me going.

Chapter 2, Part 1; Impressions

Two weeks had passed since Mickey's surprise arrival and a divide had slowly begun to appear between the students in Gryffindor House. The majority seemed content with the world, their classes and their positions in the school. A smaller, more select group were not so content. Hermione Granger was a leading member. For only the second time in her life, she had received a below average grade. This time a 'P' had been scrawled across the top of her homework. For her own part, Hermione was at a loss as to what exactly 'Professor' Tristan Diamonos wanted from them. He seemed to be asking them to question the headmaster, to question whether the 'light' was really good. Hermione didn't understand how anyone could believe anything else and not be evil.

Ron Weasley was another member of the dissident group, although not exactly for the same reason. More and more, little things that Harry Potter, his former best friend had said were beginning to make sense. The year before, he had put those thoughts down to Voldemort's influence, but now he was beginning to wonder. Hermione's inability to see what Professor Diamonos was trying to get them to understand was gnawing at him, but he wasn't sure how to explain it to her without setting her off and the borderline fanatical loyalty she had a tendency to show to authority figures was proving a sore point. Dumbledore seemed to now be focusing on Neville Longbottom in much the same way he had focused on Harry, and taking her queue from the headmaster, Hermione was determined to become his 'new best friend'.

Ginny Weasley was on the fence. After her discussion with the DSADA professor, she had sat down and actually thought about what he was saying. Which did she mourn? The boy or the hero? To her own dismay, she had quickly realised that it was the Boy Who Lived. She was angry, hurt and depressed by the loss of her childhood knight in shinning armour, but when that was taken away, she realised she hadn't know _Harry Potter _that well. To further drive the point home, Tristan's question about her anger haunted her. Was she angry at Harry for dying or for leaving her? Less assured by her thoughts on this one, she was non the less positive at least some of her anger was directed at Harry for the destruction of her fond first year wish of marrying him in a double wedding with Ron and Hermione. Seeing the beginnings of the slow disintegration of the former best friend's friendship was a sharp reminder that those thoughts had been the fluffy pink dreams of a little girl.

Colin and Dennis Creevey were also part of this group, the death of their idol having shaken the elder's rather unstable mentality and the younger simply following in his brother's footsteps. They were fast becoming Hermione's most loyal supporters in her crusade to prove Tristan a dark wizard bent on destroying the school.

Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, Parvati Patel and Lavender Brown seemed more or less unmoved by the situation. Aware of Hermione's almost obsessive interest in her schoolwork and fanatical, in their mind, loyalty to Dumbledore, her dislike, even hatred of Tristan was totally expected. After S.P.E.W., their main aim was to stay as far away from her new campaign as possible.

Neville Longbottom was alone from the original Gryffindor contingent of the ministry crew in not showing much interest in the DSADA professor. The young man, inordinately impressed with himself for his actions in the last year, had finally begun to grow a backbone and while not as intelligent as Hermione was well aware that Dumbledore appeared to have decided that he should be the figurehead replacement for the Boy Who Lived. It was a position he neither wanted, nor in his mind, deserved. Avoiding the headmaster and his subtle attempts to make him rethink his position, Neville gained a new respect for Harry, realising in a shocking moment of insight that Harry had never been taken in by Dumbledore. His unwillingness to talk to the headmaster in his second and third year taking on a whole new meaning in that moment and giving the youngest Longbottom something else to think about.

Saturday dawned bright and clear and a strange sight would have greeted anyone walking down the corridor that held the entrance to the headmaster's office. Minerva McGonagall stood in the middle of the corridor, staring unseeing at the gargoyle and she struggled with her self. Every bone in her body fought against the act her mind was insisting on; the betrayal of Tristan and Michael. Albus, to her mind was the leader of the light, a man who deserved respect and loyalty. While not fanatically loyal to him, Minerva was hard pressed to think of a single person she respected more. But he was hellbound. Albus Dumbledore was going to hell in the name of the greater good. _There is no greater good._ The words reverberated around her skull. He needed to know. She had to tell him what was going on.

The gargoyle jumped out of the way at the softly spoken password and she stepped onto the revolving staircase.

"Come in." the voice was familiar and soothing to her troubled thoughts. This was Albus Dumbledore. Michael was surely mistaken. He couldn't be going to hell. "Have a seat, Minerva. Lemon drop?"

"No thank you, Albus." She said as she slowly lowered herself into the chair across from him.

"Tea?"

"Tea would be good." She looked at him for a moment as he went through the familiar motions of creating the tea set and pouring their drinks, but she didn't speak again until he had handed her, her cup, "Albus… do you ever… do you ever wonder if you have done more evil then good?"

Albus stilled for a moment and then answered truthfully, "All the time, Minerva. But then I weigh up the good that I can do and the bad that must be done to accomplish that and I have yet to come to a point where the choice I make is not worth it."

"You're always right, then?"

He chuckled softly, "Good heavens, no. Not always. Witness how badly I handled the situation last year. I am but one man and I am human, despite what people may think. I have done the best I can with the powers I have been given."

"Do you ever think you have gone too far?"

Frowning at the question, a question no one had ever dared to ask him before, he asked, "Why the questions, Minerva? What is on your mind?"

Minerva fought not to squirm under his gaze before sighing, "I have been wondering… since Harry's death. Your treatment of him always seemed so high handed. I was wondering how you felt about it."

"I see." He nodded, lost in thought before responding, "I do wonder sometimes, if I did the right thing with him. I assumed the prophecy spoke of him, an assumption now proved incorrect. I did, arbitrarily make the arrangements that I thought would be best at the time and I spent many, many long sleepless nights as a result of them. When he came here, so meek and downtrodden, I almost thought… I believed I had made a terrible mistake, but then he rose to the challenge and with ever step he took, every victory he secured, I grew more certain that I had made the right choices. I do question myself, Minerva. But I would do much for the greater good."

Minerva nodded, a decision seemingly made. She sat up straighter, "I need to speak to you about Tristan and…"

"Where am I?" She slammed to her feet as the world disappeared in the blink of an eye. Floating in a vast sea of nothingness, she looked around, the first traces of panic settling in her gut. A figure slowly began to materialize on front of her, forming into a being similar to Michael, with massive white wings spread out on either side of her.

"Technically, you are no nowhere." The figure said, amusement colouring her tone.

"What do you mean?" the woman… thing… angel… excluded the same feeling of comfort that Michael had and Minerva found herself relaxing again her will.

"This is a place outside time, outside the natural order of things. Here is where everything begins and everything ends."

"Why am I here? Am I… am I dead?"

The woman laughed, "No. Michael asked me to keep an eye on you and make sure you did do anything stupid."

"I see."

"Why did you go to Dumbledore?"

"He has to know. He has to be told! He's _Albus Dumbledore_ for Merlin's sake!"

"So?" The woman, "Why does that make him any different from anyone else?"

"I…" Minerva stopped, unable to think of an answer.

"Mickey talked Tris into letting you keep your memory of what happened under the condition that when you broke, you got _obliviated_. Sorry, Minerva."

"Wait! Doesn't… Doesn't Albus deserve a chance to redeem himself?"

The woman looked at Minerva for a moment and then said sadly, "What do you think we let him have control of Harry for?"

And Minerva was sitting in the comfortable chair in Albus's office, "…Michael…"

"Yes?" Albus leaned forward.

Frowning, Minerva went through her thoughts from a moment ago, "I…" she shook her head, remembered the winged woman _obliviating_ her. "He… If Michael comes back, you should consider limiting his contact with the students… He seems to have quite a negative impact on them."

Albus leaned back, disappointment in his eyes for a moment, "Yes, he did rather."

It wasn't until she had left Albus' office that she let herself shake, sitting down on an empty staircase. A hand dropped down into her should and squeezed reassuringly, "It will be alright." Tristan's voice murmured softly.

She spun around to look at him, coming to her feet in a quick move, confusion in her eyes, "What did you do to me?"

"Me? I told you the truth. Mickey too and we asked you not to tell Albus. You chose to anyway and a safety measure we put in place came into action."

"Who was that… that…"

"Angel? Her name is Seraphim. She's one of Mickey's lieutenants."

That made perfect sense, even if Minerva couldn't remember for the life of her, why.

"She said… she said that Harry Potter was Albus's chance to redeem himself."

Tristan blinked, surprised, "She admitted that? Mickey must really like you, Minerva. Come with me."

She followed him as he led her through the school until they came to his door. He opened it and ushered her in, nipping into the kitchenette for a couple of cans of coke on the way. He handed her one and took the seat opposite her, "What do you remember?"

"Mickey and you… there's something off about you… wrong with you but I can't remember what. I know you have something to do with heaven and hell and I remember that Albus is hell-bound. I remembered the conversation with Seraphim and I know some things make sense to me but not why."

Tristan closed his eyes and Minerva got the distinct impression that he was counting to ten.

"You have a partial memory block. Mickey is fond of them because they... The information is still in your mind, you just can't consciously access it until he decides you're trustworthy again."

"And until then?"

"Until then, you get to live knowing you are being denied access to the information because you can't be trusted with it." Tristan shrugged, "I was all for obliviating you completely. I don't like those partial blocks."

"So you're not going to tell me?" Minerva bristled.

Tristan shrugged, "Even if I did, you wouldn't be able to remember. Seraphim knows her job."

The anger drained out of Minerva almost immediately, she had no one to blame but herself, "What about Albus?"

Tristan sighed and sank back further into his seat, "If I was to give you a spell right now what would kill You Know Who, but that would require you to kill a hundred children, would you do it?"

"No!" Minerva gasped, "And neither would Albus!"

Tristan looked at her sadly, "No, Albus wouldn't, because in his own mind, he is too important to the wizarding world. He would trick, force, bribe and outright threaten Severus Snape into doing it for him. And, if Harry was alive, him into doing it too. Were I to give that spell to Dumbledore right now, Severus and Neville Longbottom would be performing it before the end of the week. _For the greater good._"

"No, he wouldn't…"

"But think of all the lives that would be saved. Voldemort will kill more then a hundred people before he is stopped another way."

It was Minerva's turn for silence as she contemplated Tristan's words. "What did…Seraphim mean about Harry being his chance at redemption?"

Tristan grunted, "Dumbledore had damned himself before the First Rise of Voldemort began in earnest. I'd guesstimate that by the mid sixties, his attitudes had been twisted enough. The decision was made to try to turn him back onto his original course and for a while it was working. Albus began to pull out of politics, turn more and more of his attention to running the school and less to controlling the world. Then Voldemort happened and he… relapsed into his old controlling ways. The decision to put Harry into Dumbledore's care was a last ditch attempt to get him to _think_ about the repercussions of his actions. Instead of which, he foisted the baby off on the most uncaring of guardians in an attempt to turn him into the perfect weapon. Had he done what he was supposed to and _cared_, he would have almost guaranteed Harry would be victorious."

Minerva slowly made her way towards her own quarters, Tristan's words ringing in her mind. As much as she wanted to rage against the unfairness of the situation, she found herself agreeing with the… whatever Tristan was about how Albus would handle the situation. She couldn't remember the last time the old man had gotten his hands dirty. Hugging herself at the startling thought, she fought down the wave of panic. She still didn't believe that Albus had fallen that far, but she would wait and she would observe.

Grunting in frustration at the situation Mickey had put him into; Tristan got another can of coke before plonking himself on the couch and glaring at the fire. He honestly liked Minerva, but he lacked Mickey's willingness to see the best in everyone. As one of the judges, it was up to him to see the truth, but he supposed, sometimes even the Blind Judges made mistakes when they were sent to Earth. Hadn't Nychta told him more then once that it was easier to hide yourself on Earth then when standing at the crossroads? Maybe he was doing Minerva a disservice, but maybe not. She _had_ gone to Dumbledore.

Flicking open the laptop, he switched it on and waited a few moments for it to boot up before groaning. He didn't have time for this, he was meant to be on duty in twenty minutes. The blue screen continued to stare back at him, calming informing him that he wouldn't be using the laptop for a while. He turned it off and slammed the lid down. Maybe he should just start his patrol early? Of course doing that would increase the probability of him running into Snape, something he had been doing him damn hardest to avoid since coming to the school

Boredom, irritation and his privately acknowledged masochistic streak made him start the patrol. He had always been more then willing to punish himself for transgressions. Snape, however, chose not to make his attempted atonement easier and spent the last half hour of his patrol stalking the dungeons rather then Gryffindor Tower.

As he wandered through the halls, not paying much attention to his surrounding, his thoughts wandered in much the same manner as his feet. Flashes of memory, both of his life as Harry Potter and as Tristan appeared in his mind's eye and he found his mood improving almost against his will. He missed his friends and family, but he would see them again. The benefit of being a member of the Orders was that the future was spread out ahead of him, easy to see. Once Voldemort was dealt with, there would be no reason for him to remain on Earth and he could go home.

"Homesick already?" a soft voice said.

Spinning quickly, Tristan blinked in surprise as the grey-eyed woman, half concealed in shadow, leaning against the wall, "What are you doing here?"

She shrugged her shoulder, absently shaking out huge bat-like wings, "Michael made his presence felt. Tannin felt that it would make more sense to just tell you what was going on then to spend the next decade arguing with him and Nychta about whether you should have been informed. Sameal agreed and here I am."

"Oh."

"Oh?" she pushed away and stalked towards him, "Oh? That's all you can say?"

Tristan shrugged, "It's not everyday that the Queen of Hell plays messenger-girl." He smirked.

She laughed in response and then jumped into his arms.

Tristan held her close, burying his face in her neck and sighed as he felt her arms wrap around him. They stayed that way for a moment before the woman untangled herself and regained her footing on the floor, "Silver and Obsidian have been doing well these last few years."

"We do work well together."

"It must be annoying when the other Order's don't play ball."

Tristan shrugged, not quite sure where she was going with his and settled for holding her loosely and playing with her waist-length blonde hair.

"We've been noticing an increase in the deviants who congregate around the gates and we suspect that some of them are managing to get through. Tannin is trying to get permission for some of the guards to protect the other side of the gate." She finally pulled out of his arms and they began to walk along the corridor, following Tristan's patrol route.

"Gabby will never agree."

She shrugged, "He's going to try. Nychta and Michael had the right idea. This division is only causing more problems.

"I see."

The woman suddenly stopped, turning Tristan to face her, he expression was tense as she said "There are eight, not four gates from hell to Earth. Six of them are blocked. The other two, one opens into Central Park in Manhattan. The second opens in Westminster Cathedral."

"How long has that one been there?" Tristan sniggered.

"Since they undid the Catholic consecration. Don't ask."

Tristan sniggered again, "Does Mickey know?"

"We told him not to worry about the Black Country and to focus there as well. I have to get back, not sure how much longer Viv will hold the gate open for me. I'll let you know how the vote goes."

With a pale shimmer for red light, the woman disappeared after giving Tristan one last hug. He stood there watching until the last glimmer of light had faded before walking on with a sigh, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Behind him, a shape detached itself from the shadows and stepped out into the hallway. After wafting his hand through the space occupied by the woman a few moments earlier, he looked hard at his hand before turning his head in the direction of the departed DSADA teacher, "Interesting."


End file.
